Strange Workings of the Universe
by Orlissa
Summary: Grant ward is not a God fearing man. More like an atheist, if you will. But there are some things that he believes in – such as karma, and that it is somehow his fault that his daughter was born prematurely. (Head up: Skyeward story, but Skye is not physically present)


**Summary:** Grant ward is not a God fearing man. More like an atheist, if you will. But there are some things that he believes in – such as karma, and that it is somehow his fault that his daughter was born prematurely.  
 **A/N:** I started this story ages ago – honestly, the last time the file was updated before I picked it up again a few days ago was in _February_. But anyway, a great deal of research went into this one-shot, so I just couldn't leave it hanging. Also, it is a Skyeward story, although Skye is not physically present. A big thank you goes to ticklish-super-spy for beta-reading this for me – sorry for having played with your feelings, darling!  
 **Rating:** K+  
 **Word count:** 2167  
 **Disclaimer:** [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]

* * *

 **Strange Workings of the Universe**

Grant Ward is not a God fearing man.

It's not for the lack of trying from his parents' part to make him one– he spent countless hours as a child in Sunday school, listening to a preacher talk about a merciful God who ordered a man to kill his son in his name, slaughtered a man's family to prove his point, and basically wiped out all Earth because his creation got out of hand. If anything, these lessons made him want to believe less, to distance himself from religion. The fact that whenever faith was brought up at home it was implied that it is important to be religious because people expect you to be – and the people's opinion matter more than anything – not because it's the pathway into heaven, didn't help a bit.

His opinion on the topic didn't change as an adult, no matter how many firm believers he had crossed paths with – and he had met his fair share of agents who wore crucifixes around their necks, made the sign of the cross before jumping out a plane and murmured a quick prayer before going into action. He supposed having frequent brushes with death brought this out of people. Not him, though. He remained untouched by the Holy Spirit. An atheist, if you will.

But karma, karma was something else. It was something he could wrap his mind around. Something free of personal gain, of pretenses, of hypocrites. There was no deity involved, just your actions and the universal balance of things. What you do, will be done to you. What goes around, comes around. Clear, easy. So yeah, he believed in karma.

And that is why now, next to the paralyzing sadness and the utter helplessness – because, once again, he was facing a foe he could not kick and punch into submission – he felt overwhelming guilt. Because as he gazed down at the transparent walls of the incubator he couldn't help but believe that he was responsible for this somehow – that it was karma balancing out all his past sins by making him suffer this way.

Born at thirty-three weeks and measuring not even five pounds, his daughter was frighteningly tiny and fragile-looking, even more so with all the machines and medical equipment attached to her – the IV drip in her arm, the sensors on her chest monitoring her heartbeat, the cannula under her nose, helping her breathe. It's like a simple touch could break her. And as much as he knows, it might be true.

He hasn't even gotten to hold her, neither of them did – she was whisked away right after she was born, and he only got to see her for a moment then, before she was taken from the room.

He came here as soon as he could, as soon as he knew Skye would be okay (the birth itself went as smoothly as it could have been expected, at least that's what he was told, but the labor was long, and she was frantic and scared for her baby, so they gave her some sedative so she could rest), and now he can look at her, take her in, even if there is a plastic wall separating them. She is beautiful, of course, perfect even, from her ten tiny toes, to the thin, dark wisps of hair poking out from under the knit cap she's wearing. Her eyes are closed, but he can still see their slight almond shape. Her nose is an adorable button in the center of her face, and her lips are so painfully _Skye_ that it makes his heart ache.

She is so gorgeous, but so, so damn small and vulnerable and fragile and _early_.

His hands resting on the top of the incubator clench into fists as he closes his eyes and bows his head.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. She was supposed to wait for just a couple of more weeks so she would be stronger, and they were supposed to have more time to prepare for her…

They haven't even decided on a name for her yet.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until he feels a tear slide down his nose.

He doesn't try to hold back – sometimes it's better to let it all out, at least that's what they've been telling him. His head down, his spine bent, he weeps, letting out his frustration and fear the way that seems the easiest now, and what is sure healthier than punching something.

So immersed in his sorrow, for the first time in more than a decade and a half, he pays no mind to his surroundings, and is caught off guard – he almost jumps a little when a small hand is placed on his shoulder, while another hovers in front of his face, offering him a tissue.

"It's okay," Jemma whispers, as he takes the tissue from her and dabs his eyes. "It's going to be okay."

"I just…" He knows he should say something, but he just can't – he can barely breathe, and feels like if he says another word, he'll break down again.

Fortunately, Jemma still understands him; she draws him into a silent embrace, rubbing his back until his breathing regulates again. It takes him a while to respond to her touch, to put his own arms around her, grateful for her support.

"It's not as bad as it seems, really," she says once they let go of each other, but he doesn't miss as she lifts her hand to her face, wiping her eyes subtly. "Thirty-three weeks is good and she is strong, just like her parents. She has a very good chance of coming out of it without any long-term problems." She picks up the tablet lying next to the incubator and taps it a few times, bringing up something. "Her heartbeat is still a little weaker than we'd like, but her oxygen levels are already a lot better than they were two hours ago. If she progresses like this, she could be off the oxygen by tomorrow morning."

Grant only half-hears her reassuring words; halfway through he turns back to the incubator, and, his palms splayed on the clear plastic, he gazes down at his daughter's tiny face. Even with all the machines around her, she looks almost peaceful, but to see her like this hurts him more than he could express it with mere words.

"It's all my fault," he says quietly.

"What?" Jemma asks, breaking her previous train of thought. "No, no! It's nobody's fault," she tries to reassure him, taking half a step towards him, placing her own hand on the top of the incubator. "Sometimes these things just happen, and you don't know why – I know, it bothers me, too, not knowing what caused it, but you have to know that it's not your fault, okay?" She leaned in a little, so she could look into his eyes, but Grant cast his gaze down.

"I just can't shake the feeling off that this…" He sighs. "That this is some kind of big, cosmic justice for all the things I have done in the past, and I don't understand – why does she have to suffer for my sins?" his voice cracks. "And I just feel powerless, unable to help, and it's killing me."

He hears Jemma take a deep breath, then, a few seconds later he senses her straightening her spine, looking around the room.

"Wait a minute…" she mumbles to herself, then steps away for a moment and drags the armchair that somebody with some level of foresight has brought to the room close to the incubator. "Take off your shirt!"

Grant's eyes go a little wide in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"Just… just trust me, okay?" Jemma says, brushing a stray lock from her face. "I'll explain in a minute, just take off your shirt and sit here," she points at the armchair. "I'll be back in a moment." With that, she leaves the room, but, as she said, she is back in a minute with some kind of bigger piece of fabric, maybe a bedsheet in her hand. She looks at him with squinted eyes. "Why are you still wearing your shirt?"

Grant blinks, then, deciding that Jemma is being serious, pulls his shirt over his head without any further questions, and throws it on the back of the chair.

"Great, now sit!" she orders, and when he obeys, settling on the edge of the chair, she places the bedsheet on the top of the incubator, then carefully opens the side of the machine.

Grant watches her, almost entranced, as she slips her hands under the sleeping baby and, mindful of all the tubes and machinery attached to her, lifts her out of the incubator. His heart stops for a moment as with the baby in her hands, Jemma turns towards him, and gently places her on his chest.

His daughter, on his chest. For the first time, he is holding his daughter, and he feels like his heart is ready to jump out of his chest.

"Careful! Support her head." she instructs, and he listens, he really does, but gaze is focused on the baby, as she stirs because of being moved, squirming against his chest. He is still staring at her, at this perfect, tiny human being, when she is safely in his arms, and Jemma is reaching for the sheet she brought. "Lift your elbows, please," she asks, then proceeds to the wrap the sheet around him and his daughter, securing her against him. "That's it."

He practically has to tear his eyes away from the baby to look at Jemma.

"How… why?" He is not exactly sure what he wants to ask, but Jemma just smiles down at him.

"Now you're helping her," she says. "Your body heat warms her, helping to keep her own body at the right temperature. She can feel your heartbeat, and it helps her to regulate her own. And with the skin-on-skin contact, a tremendous amount of hormones is released that helps you bond. Look!" She picks up the tablet and shows him the baby's vitals once again. "Her heartbeat is already stronger. See? You're helping her."

Grant can't help but smile a little. He lifts his right hand, and gently brushes a fingertip over his daughter's tiny fist. The fingers open almost immediately, then wrap around his finger, the little girl anchoring herself to him. Her eyes flutter open – dark, dark blue at the moment, that will, he hopes, will turn to the same deep brown color her mother has in a couple of months – and she looks at him for the very first time in her life.

"Hi…" he breathes, wonderstruck, his voice barely above whisper.

"You should talk to her," Jemma says, straightening a few things around them. "She should be able to recognize your voice." Then she closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. "And Grant? Please, stop thinking that it's your fault. It is not. If anything, she is a gift for all the things you have endured, okay? She is perfect, it's just that she was a little bit impatient, and now she needs a couple of weeks to get strong, that's all."

As she says it, with his daughter resting right above his heart, Grant suddenly doesn't find it that hard to believe it. This baby really is a gift – a precious, fragile gift to be protected and treasured, and he really shouldn't be surprised that she came to this world causing a bit of a trouble. She's just taking after her parents. She'll be alright, he knows, because how could anything bad happen to somebody whom he could love so fiercely?

Jemma leans down and runs her hand along the baby's back. "And really, talk to her. I'll leave you two alone now, but I won't be far – just shout if you need anything." With that she straightens her back and walks out of the room, but standing at the threshold she looks back at them for the last time. "And congratulations!"

Left alone in the room with the baby, this yet-nameless little girl, his gaze turns on her once again, as she still grips his finger with surprising strength. He can't help but smile.

"So we are supposed to talk, right?" he says in a soft voice. "Have I told you about that one time when your mommy went against every rule to save me and Uncle Fitz?" The baby lets out a little yawn, her eyes fluttering as she readjusts her grip on his finger. "I'll take it as a no. So I was on a mission with Uncle Fitz, while mommy, Aunt Jemma, Grandpa Phil and Grandma May was staying at the Hub, and…"

The baby is fast asleep within minutes, warm and comfy, her heartbeat strong, but he just keeps talking, feeling like – for the first time she was born – everything is going to be alright.

* * *

 **A/N:** The practice they use here is called the kangaroo method or care – it is a real life thing, and it has many benefits not just for the baby, but for the parents as , google it, it's a really extraordinary thing.


End file.
